


White Knuckle

by clgfanfic



Category: Counterstrike (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old nemesis of Peter's comes back for revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Knuckle

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Ouch! #1 and later in Black Ops #9 under the pen name Jamie Hector.

Gabrielle Germont walked slowly through the Savage Gallery, admiring the collection of modern South American Indian art displayed conscientiously on pale green walls with darker green trim; the effect gave the setting a jungle-like atmosphere.  Several small self-contained fountains were arranged to ensure the sound of running water in all corners of the gallery.  Potted ferns and broad-leaf trees added to the atmosphere, as did the colorful parrots and other birds that sat perched in the foliage.  A handful of art-beat reporters moved from painting to painting, looking, laughing, and taking notes.

Gabrielle knew most of the reporters, and wondered which one had suggested she be added to the list of attendees for the opening.  Whoever it was, she owed them at least a good dinner and a bottle of champaign.  But her reasons for coming had nothing to do with writing a story about the opening.  She came simply to enjoy the art, rich in color, texture, and exotic imagery.

Leaving the others in the main gallery, Gabby slipped into one of the smaller rooms and smiled.  The paintings hanging on pale orange walls with the same dark green trim were all about love – one of her favorite subjects.

One piece hanging on the far wall captured her attention and Gabrielle walked over to stand in front of the four foot by four foot tangle of bright colors.  She glanced around, making sure she was alone, then closed her eyes and reached out, running her fingers lightly over the forms of a young woman and a black jaguar entwined in an erotic embrace.  Her smile widened as she experienced the texture of the strokes, savoring the sensation – as sensual as the images themselves.

Someone clearing their throat behind her popped Gabby's eyes open.  She blushed and turned to see who had discovered her illicit activity.  The tall, handsome Indian man grinned.  "An interesting way to view a painting," he said.

"A friend, a painter, taught me," she confessed, not adding that he was also a murderer; one she'd helped bring to justice.

"I see," the man replied, stepping closer.

Her gaze took in his red-brown skin, black hair and eyes, high cheekbones, and warm smile.  She drew a deep breath, savoring the spicy aroma of his cologne. His loose cotton pants and shirt looked hand-woven, the colors as bright as those in the gallery paintings.  Still, there was something about him that made her uneasy…

"Is this one of yours?" she asked.

"Oh no," he said, the obvious egotism diminishing her opinion of him further. "My work is in the main gallery."

"This is beautiful," she said.  "Very… erotic.  Sensual."

The man responded with a half-shrug.  "Primitive."

"A matter of personal interpretation," Gabrielle countered.

He nodded, taking a step closer.  "Perhaps you would allow me to show you more?" he asked.

"Perhaps," was her teasing reply.  After all, he was quite handsome, and it would be interesting to see what kind of art he produced.  The main gallery was busy, she would be safe in there.

"Good, good."  He reached out, slipping an arm around her shoulder before she could step away.

Gabrielle felt a slight prick and looked down at his hand, her gaze focusing on the gold ring he wore.  A snarling gold jaguar ringed with glittering red rubies.  She swayed, her knees buckling.  He sweep her up into his arms as the blackness chased away her thought of screaming.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Consciousness returned with a blinding flash of white light.  Gabrielle rolled her head to the side, trying to escape the glare, but could not.  With a mumbled French curse, she attempted to raise her hands to shield her eyes, but they stopped far short, trapped in soft shackles.

"What's going on?" she demanded, tugging futilely at the wrist restraints.

"Just a little fishing trip, my dear," came a masculine, British-intoned reply.

Gabrielle rolled her head the other way, fighting against the light that sent waves of pain through her head.  The taunting voice sounded familiar, but she couldn't place it, her thoughts too scattered and uncontrollable.

A sudden sting in her upper arm told Gabrielle that they had given her more drugs.  A moment later an explosion of colors behind her tightly closed eyelids forced her to suck in a sharp breath to fight the sudden nausea that clawed through her midsection.

"What do you want?" she hissed.

"I want you to tell me a secret, Gabrielle," the masculine voice explained, the cadence almost sing-song.

"A secret?" she asked, wishing she understood what the devil he was talking about, and wishing the agony tearing through her head like scissors through tissue would stop.

"Yes, Gabrielle, I want you to tell me a secret about Peter Sinclair."

Her head continued to roll back and forth, trying to escape the painful light.  "Peter?"

"Yes, Peter Sinclair.  Tell me what Peter Sinclair is afraid of, Gabrielle."

"Afraid of?"

"What is Peter Sinclair afraid of?" the voice demanded, the light tone replaced by one hard and cold.

Gabrielle whimpered, afraid, and answered in spite of herself.  "Rats."

"Peter is afraid of rats?"

Humor clung to his reply, a soft laugh dancing across her consciousness.  "Yes."  Her fingers curled, her nails digging into her palm as she tried to find something else to concentrate on besides his prying questions.

"What else?"

"Nothing," she moaned, using the pain in her hands to stop the answer that wanted to slip off her tongue.  "Who are you?"

"Now, now, Gabrielle.  You must tell me.  You have no choice.  What else is Peter Sinclair afraid of?"

"Bodies," Gabrielle replied, hoping that would make the voice, the pain, and the bright light go away.

"Bodies?"

"Dead bodies.  He doesn't like dead bodies," she snapped.

A roaring laugh filled Gabby's ears, sweeping her back into the welcome blackness.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Peter Sinclair lay sprawled comfortably in the queen-sized bed, watching his ex-wife as she walked back into the bedroom, freshly showered.  She paused and grinned at him, her bare hips circling seductively.

Peter groaned and rolled onto his side, burying his face in a pillow.

Claire laughed.  "Your turn, Peter.  I left you some hot water," she said, walking over to her dresser and pulling out underwear and a bra.

Peter rolled onto his back and watched her dress.  He grinned, amazed at how well they managed to get on now that they had been divorced for almost five years.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"I have to go to the market.  There's nothing in the cupboards.  I won't be long," she promised, stepping into a pair of snug jeans and pulling on a light red sweater.

The ex-Scotland Yard detective grinned.  "Promises, promises."

"Don't forget to make the bed when you're done," she said, walking over to the bed and bending over to place a kiss on his cheek, then left.

He listened to the front door close, the car start, and the scratch of tires on gravel as she pulled out of the drive.  With a groan, he forced himself out of bed and headed for the shower, hoping that the hot water lasted past the first ten minutes.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Clean, dressed, and a cup of coffee in hand, Peter sat down at Claire's kitchen table and scanned the _London Times_ , looking for something interesting to read.  The brassy ring of the phone interrupted his quest and he leaned back in his chair, then reached out and fumbled the receiver into his hand.

"Hello?"

"Peter, it's me," Claire said.  "I managed to get halfway between the market and home and the car stalled.  I can't seem to get it running again.  Would you come get me?"

"I'm on the way," Peter said with a smile.

"I'll wait for you in the car."

"Fine."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

He spotted the small red sedan parked alongside the two-lane road and pulled up, parking behind it.  Climbing out of his rental, he glanced around, not noticing Claire.  With a worried frown he walked up to the car, intending to check under the bonnet, but stopped short when he caught sight of his ex-wife lying in the backseat.

"Claire?" he called anxiously, stepping quickly to the door and yanking it open.

Leaning into the car, he reached out to caress the woman's face.  "Claire?  Are you—?"

Peter heard the impending attack a moment before the needle sank into the back of his thigh.

Scrambling backwards, he turned to fight off whoever was there, but his legs buckled, pitching him forward onto the ground and into unconsciousness.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Sinclair groaned and forced his eyes open, then rubbed them with the balls of his palms, trying to force away the misty blur that obscured his vision.  He blinked, but the milky distortion refused to fade.  He closed his eyes again, hoping that would help.

He sniffed.  An odd, almost metallic odor tainted the air and he swallowed hard as bile rose up the back of his throat.  With a sigh he struggled to sit up, then forced his eyes open and glanced around the best he could.  In the near distance he saw what he thought must be walls, but it was the dirt-grit biting into the palm of the hand he rested his weight on that focused his attention.

He looked at his more immediate surroundings – rocks, trees, brush…

He shook his head, trying to decide if he was inside or out and concluded that it didn't matter.  He had to escape; find Claire before it was too late.

Struggling to his feet, Peter bent over and swallowed several times to keep his stomach from turning over.  A chill shook him and he took a step forward to keep his balance.

Looking down to see where his foot was, he noticed the blood for the first time and his gaze automatically following the red trail to a mangled body lying too close by.  He sucked in a breath, cursing softly under his breath and took several unsteady steps away from the corpse.

Knowing he had to see who the victim was, he drew in a deep breath and held it.  Wishing his stomach wasn't roiling, he stepped closer to the body, trying to see what had happened.

The torn flesh provided no answers, the destruction making it impossible to even tell if the victim was male or female.  Peter glanced to the right and found another body.

Sweat broke out on the ex-detective's face and he trembled, looking more closely around the space with rapidly clearing vision.  There were bodies everywhere.

"Bloody battlefield," he whispered.

Stumbling forward, he tried not to stare at the carnage he passed, but his gaze refused to obey, seeking out the dead as he tried to comprehend his situation.

"Damned bloody war zone," he wheezed, almost gagging as he passed a man whose chest and mid-section had been blown wide open.

He pressed the back of his hand to his lips, trying to block out the fetid smell and quiet his stomach, but it was impossible.  Wiping the sweat off his upper lip, he tried to swallow again, but found his throat too tight.  He gagged and coughed.

Peter stopped, resting a shoulder against a rough boulder as he heaved, spilling bile onto the dusty ground.  Trembling harder, he shoved away from the rock, stumbling forward, forcing himself past the butchery.

Nearing what was clearly a wall, he stopped, gaze locked on a blonde body.  "Claire?" he gasped, dropping to his knees next to the apparently dead woman.  A soft hiss went unnoticed as he reached out, gently touching his ex-wife's hair.

He slumped forward, passing out in the dirt alongside the bloody body.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Alone in a small room, Gabrielle watched Peter stumbling through the constructed battlefield.  She swallowed hard when he heaved, wondering if the bodies she could see were real.

She ran a shaking hand over her lips, trying to remember where she was and how she'd gotten there.  The last thing she remembered clearly was arriving at the gallery opening, and after that everything dissolved into an incomprehensible bricolage of light, pain, and a voice that she couldn't quite remember.

She knew she was somehow responsible for what was happening to Peter, but the harder she tried to remember how or why, the further away the memories retreated.  She reached out, pressing her palm against the cold glass as Peter knelt over the body of a women who looked like his ex-wife.

Maybe it was Claire.

Maybe she had gotten them all killed.

Anger erupted in the pit of her stomach, red-hot heat spreading out along her limbs and narrowing her vision.  Whoever the voice belonged to, he wasn't going to use her again.

She watched Peter fall, then stepped away from the one-way glass and started looking for a way out.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Hector Stone concentrated on the lithe blonde figure filling his television screen.  Well endowed did not even begin to describe her buxom figure, and he grinned as she extorted him to: "Pump it!  Pump it, harder!  Make it burn, mister!"

He grinned, hefting the heavy dumb-bells from thigh to shoulder and back down again over and over in the same fluid motion.  "Gotta do better than that, sweetheart," he told the pouting woman.

The phone rang, and he glanced at it with a sour frown.  His attention quickly returned to the screen – the answering machine would get it.

"Stone?" echoed through the room, the tone of Gabrielle's voice cutting through the man's concentration.  He dropped the weights and hit the button, turning the television off.

"Stone, are you there?  Please, Stone, answer the phone!"

Gabrielle was scared, really scared, he realized, crossing the room in three long strides and grabbing the receiver.  "Gabby?"

"Stone?"

"What's wrong?"

"We're in trouble," she said.  "Peter and I."

"Where are you?" Stone demanded.

"I'm not sure," she admitted, giving him all she had, the phone number off the set she was calling from.  "Hurry, Stone."

"I'm on my way, kiddo.  You hang tough."

"I will," she said, and he could hear the hope and trust in her voice.

He listened to the line go dead, silently vowing that he wasn't going to lose either of his teammates.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Gabrielle placed the receiver back in its cradle as quietly as she could, then tip-toed back to the closed office door.  She took a deep breath, hoping she could find a way out of the old warehouse before anyone found her.  Reaching for the doorknob, she gripped the smooth metal handle and froze.  She felt the knob rotate under her hand, and jumped back, looking frantically for a weapon as the door swung open.  Her blue eyes rounded as she stared at the man blocking the doorway.

"Trevor Winston," she said, the same hot anger she'd felt earlier replacing the fear.

"Very good, my dear," the tall, dapper man replied with a charming smile.  "Now that you've arranged for Mr. Stone to join us, it's time for you to get ready for the next act."

The blood drained out of Gabrielle's face, leaving her grey as she realized her mistake.  He'd used her again.

Winston grinned.  "You didn't honestly think you'd managed to escape, now did you?"  He tsked at her and shook his head.

Gabrielle's expression shifted from shock to rage.

"Well, I guess you did," the dark-haired man replied, then chuckled softly to himself.  "Ah, well, life is just full of little disappointments, don't you agree, my dear?"

He gestured and two men entered the room – one the tall Indian from the gallery – each one stepping forward and grabbing one of the photojournalist's arms, dragging her out while she struggled.

"You won't get away with this," she snapped as they moved her past Winston.

"Oh, I beg to differ, my dear.  I already have!"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Stone reached for the phone again, then paused.  If he called Addington and this was a set-up the boss could end up in a bad spot.  Better to run it to ground first, then call in backup.  He opened the top drawer of the small desk where the phone sat, pulling out a battered small green address book.  He opened it, and ran a finger down the list of names and numbers inside the first page until he found 'Sandy Patterson.'

Snatching up the receiver, he dialed.  Listening to the phone ring, he made the mental calculation, figuring the time shift from Paris to Washington DC.

"Come on," Stone muttered.

"Colonel Patterson."

"Sandy?  It's Stone."

"Stone?" the man replied.  "Jesus Christ, it's been a long time, my man."

"Yeah, too long," the ex-Navy SEAL replied, a slight smile on is lips.  "Look, I need a favor.  ASAP."

"Name it, Rock."

"I have a phone number, don't know what country, and I need a location – yesterday."

"Give me the number," the man said.  "Where can I reach you?"

Stone read the numbers off and gave him his own.  "How fast?"

"Less than an hour," Colonel Patterson promised.

"Thanks, Sandy.  I owe you one."

"We'll talk about it the next time you're in Washington."

"Yeah," Stone said, hanging up.  He waited a moment, then lifted the receiver again and called J.J.

"Captain Johnson," J.J. said at the other end of the line.

"J.J., it's Stone, look, something's up with Peter and Gabby, can you get the plane fired up?"

"Sure thing," the younger black man replied.  "Does the boss know?"

"Not yet," Stone said.  "I want to check things out first, see what the hell's going on."

"I'll be ready to go in less than an hour."

"Thanks."

Hanging up, Stone headed into his bedroom to change and get his gear ready.

Twenty minutes later the phone rang.

"Stone," he said.

"It's Sandy," was the reply.  "I have the information."

"Shoot," Stone said, grabbing a pen and one of the scraps of paper that littered the surface of the phone-stand.

"That number's listed as belonging to Kartwell Industries, an electronics conglomerate in Toronto."

"Address?"

Colonel Patterson read off the street address, then asked, "You want to fill me in?"

"Not yet," Stone replied.  "It's… personal."

"Be careful, Stone."

"I'm always careful."

"I've heard that before," Sandy said, then hung up.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Stone waited until J.J. landed the plane in Toronto before he contacted Addington.

 _Satellite link_ , the on-board computer announced a moment before an angry-looking Alexander Addington appeared on the television screen in the plane.  "Mr. Stone, would you please tell me what the devil's going on?" the older man demanded.  "Why is _my_ plane not at the airport?"

"Got a call from Gabby," Stone explained.  "She said she and Pete were in trouble.  I'm gonna check it out."

"Where are you?" the industrialist asked, the anger gone, replaced with concern.

"Toronto."

"Toronto?" Addington echoed.  "But that's not possible.  Peter's in London, with Claire, and Gabrielle's here in Paris."

"Not anymore," Stone said.  "Gabby gave me a phone number.  It belongs to Kartwell Industries, in Toronto."

"Kartwell," Addington said.  "Nathan Kartwell is a good man.  He wouldn't have anything to do with a kidnapping.  That's where you're going?"

Stone nodded.  "I'll let you know what I find.

"You do that!" Addington snapped.  "And next time, you will tell me sooner!"

Stone tried not to grin.  "Yes, sir.  And just in case this is a smokescreen, can you run a check on in-coming calls to my apartment last night?  The one right before an exchange between Paris and Washington DC is the one you're interested in."

"I can do that."

"Thanks, Mr. A."

Muttering under his breath, Addington disconnected the link.

 _Link out_.

Stalking to one of the closets on the plane, Stone pulled out a toolbelt and slipped it on.  A white hard-hat followed, turning his jeans, white T-shirt, and boots into a convincing work outfit.

J.J. stepped into the main section of the plane, a concerned expression on his handsome face.  "Want some backup?"

Stone shook his head.  "I need you here in case something goes wrong."

"And how will I know that?" the pilot asked, resting his hands on his hips.

"If I don't get back or call in two hours you call Mr. A and tell him to send in the cavalry."

"You got it," J.J. said.  "Good luck."

"Let's hope I don't need it."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Stone walked confidently into the multi-story glass-fronted building and headed straight to the information desk.  A petite young woman in a well-tailored skirt suit smiled at him, asking, "Can I help you?"

"Yeah," Stone replied in the half-bored tone of a repairman.  "Phone company.  We got a call that this number's having trouble, but the dispatcher didn't record an office number.  Can you tell me which office it's in?"

The young woman accepted what looked like an official work order with the phone number in question listed at the top.  She reached up, tucking a stray of her reddish-brown hair behind her ear, then checked a directory.

"Ah, that's Mr. Rovert's office.  Number 333."  She glanced up at Stone.  "But that office is empty.  Mr. Rovert moved to our Berlin office a week or so ago."

Stone studied the work order, an annoyed frown on his face.  "Maybe this is supposed to be a disconnect order then," he grumbled.  "Look, why don't I go take a look, then if I can't figure out what's going on.  I'll call the dispatcher and see if they can track down the original work request."

"Sounds like a plan," she replied with a friendly smile.

"Thanks," Stone said, returning the smile.  "Do I need a pass or anything?"

"No," she said.  "Just use the public elevators; one of the first two."

Stone nodded and walked around to the bank of brass door elevators.  He pressed the up arrow for the first lift and waited for the door to open.  Stepping inside, he gave the young woman one last smile, then pressed '3.'

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Stepping into the thickly carpeted third-floor hallway, Stone checked the numbers on the doors, then turned right, walking almost to the end of the hall to reach 333.  He noted the door marked 'stairs' almost directly across from the office door and scowled slightly.  Too damned perfect for an ambush.

Pausing outside the dark-grained wood door he knocked twice, then tested the knob.  He opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him.

Finding the space empty, he frowned and moved forward slowly, his gaze roaming over the fixtures, walls, and ceiling, looking for any possible threat.  Once he was sure that the outer office was clear, Stone moved to the larger inner office, which was also empty except for a large cherry-wood desk.  The surface of the desk was clear except for a phone.

Stone approached the desk cautiously, not liking the warning bells that silently clanged in his head.  Bending over slightly, he checked the number on the multi-line phone; one matched the number Gabrielle had given him.

A sound like a sharp, cold breeze whiffled through the room and Stone stiffened, then, sucking in a single breath, bolted for the door, collapsing a step short of freedom.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

J.J. checked his watch for the tenth time in less than a minute.  Shaking his head, he activated the satellite link and waited for a reply.

"Stone, did you—?" Addington broke off, seeing J.J. instead.  "What's wrong?"

"Stone's not back.  He said if he didn't make it back in two hours to call.  Guess we need to send in the cavalry."

"Contact the local authorities," Addington said.  "I'll see what I can do to smooth the way."

"Yes, sir.  You want me to go take a look?"

"No!" Addington snapped.  "I've lost three of my people already; I don't want to add you to the list!"

J.J.'s disappointment was clear, but he nodded his understanding.

"If the police can't find anything, I want you back here."

"Yes, sir.  I'll keep you informed."

"You do that," Addington concluded.  "No one else has!"

 _Link out_ , the computer announced as the screen went black.

J.J. leaned over, picked up the phone and called the police, hoping he didn't end up having to deal with Samuelson.  The Toronto police lieutenant seemed to regard both of Addington's teams as nothing more than troublesome nuisances.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Peter woke and sat up, his limbs cold from contact with the icy, damp floor.  The room was dark, making it impossible to see.  The air smelled of antiseptic and other chemicals.  His stomach pinched, and he swallowed, knowing it was empty.

Climbing to his feet, Sinclair moved carefully along the walls, finally bumping into a metal cart on wheels.  He reached out, lightly touching the surface of the cart and finding a cloth draped over some kind of shallow tray.  He lifted the material and felt into the tray, cursing softly when something pricked his finger.

He tried again, more carefully.  A scalpel.

He dropped the cloth and took a step away.

An overhead light flashed on, and Sinclair raised a hand to shield his eyes from the fluorescent glare.  When his eyes adjusted he glanced around the small room.  A gurney rested in the center of the cement floor, a white sheet draped over the body of a woman.  He swallowed again, noting the large bloodstain over the woman's mid-section.

He took a hesitant step forward, not wanting to look, but needing to know who was under the sheet.  Reaching the side of the gurney, he lifted the edge of the material far enough to see the woman's hand.  A ring watch.

Gabrielle?

Peter sucked in a deep breath as his stomach threatened to rebel.  Letting the sheet drop, he reached for the corner at the head and lifted it just far enough to peek at the woman's face.

"Oh, God," he breath, releasing the sheet and turning away as the first of the dry heaves struck.

First Claire, now Gabrielle.  Both dead.  Why?  What the bloody hell was going on!

He felt his knees buckle, unaware of the soft hiss of gas that filled the room.  Blackness surrounded him, drawing a tighter and tighter circle until he fell thankfully into the dark oblivion.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Stone woke suddenly, but remained perfectly still, his eyes closed as he assessed his situation.  It was cold, the air unheated and slightly stale.  Several male voices engaged in quiet but intense conversation at the far side of the room.

He let his eyes crack open just far enough to peer out at his surroundings.  Stone-block walls, the white paint long transformed by dirt into a cold grey that suggested a prison.  Old, well-used wooden furniture sat scattered around the room, the original paint mostly cracked off, adding nothing to the puzzle.  Three men stood near a door – metal, not bars.

 _A warehouse of some kind_ , Stone decided silently.

No signs or writing was present to tell him if he was still in Toronto.  He closed his eyes, monitoring the conversation with a detached portion of his attention while he used the time to make a quick evaluation of his physical condition.  He was unbound, lying on an old-style military issue cot – if the faded olive color was any clue.  It smelled of dust and dampness so it hadn't been used in some time.  So this was probably a makeshift operation, convenient, but not necessary.

He carefully tensed and relaxed his muscles.  Nothing sore or sluggish as a result of the gas.  A mild throb beat at the base of his skull, the lingering effect of the chemicals.  However, the pounding threatened to escalate if he decided to move.

Silently sucking in a deep breath, he pulled up random facts from his memory, deciding after several seconds that his mind was clear and sharp.  None of the tell-tale signs of a long sleep were present.

 _Score one for the home team,_ he thought.  All the physical evidence suggested that he was still in Toronto, and, except for the slight headache, he seemed to be fine.

Cracking his eyes open a second time, he found the men in the same location.  He studied them, trying to remember if he'd seen any of them before.  A tall, smooth-looking Latino or Indian man was a complete stranger.  The second man was white, average height, stocky, and given his crooked nose, someone who enjoyed a good fist-fight.  The third was a mystery, his back the only thing Stone could see.

With nothing else to do, the ex-SEAL sat up, placing his feet on the cement floor and his hands on his thighs.  "Helluva of a party you've got here…"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Addington paced the length of his office, waiting for a return call from J.J.  At his desk, Helene hung up the phone and sighed.  "I cannot locate Gabrielle or Peter," she said.  "I've tried family, friends, professional contacts; there's nothing.  No one has seen them."

"Did you get a hold of Claire?" Addington asked.  "Peter said he—"

"I tried, but there is no answer at her home either."

"Damn!" the industrialist swore.  "What the devil's going on?"

 _Satellite link_ , the computer announced.  "Mr. Addington," J.J. said.  "I've got Lieutenant Samuelson here—"

The police detective stepped into the range of the camera, displacing the pilot.  "Mr. Addington," he acknowledged, looking as sour as ever.  "I checked that address and it's just an empty office.  It's been empty for about two weeks.  There was no sign of a struggle, of Mr. Stone, or of anyone else for that matter."

"If Stone was there, it was because—"

"We have no way of knowing what the reason was," the detective interrupted.  "The receptionist did see him and she did give him directions to the office."

"Did she see him leave?" Addington asked.

"No, but she left for a staff meeting."

"What about fingerprints?  Fibers?  Security cameras?" the industrialist countered.  "Someone had to see something!  There has to be some kind of evidence!"

"Mr. Addington, there is no crime scene at this point.  I can't justify pulling people off on-going cases to follow up on a possible—"

"A man has disappeared, Lieutenant!"

"How do you know?"

"He was supposed to check in and he failed to do so.  Mr. Stone is a professional; he does not forget to check in!"

Helene moved to stand next to Addington, placing a hand on his arm to quiet the man.  "Please," she said to the inspector.  "Something is very wrong."

"All right, all right," the man sighed, knowing that Addington would just go over his head if he didn't do something.  "I'll have someone see if there are any security cameras on that floor and I'll have the office dusted for prints."

"Thank you, Inspector," Addington said.  "And don't forget the fibers!"

"I wouldn't think of it," Samuelson muttered, then cleared his throat and said, "I'll get back to you as soon as I know anything."

"I'm taking the next Concord.  I'll be in Toronto in a few hours.  You can reach me there.  You know the place," he concluded.

Samuelson nodded.  He did indeed know the house – a twenty-five room mansion in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the city.  He'd spent several days there working on the Chantel Addington kidnapping case.  The same case that had prompted the industrialist to create his little vigilante team.

"Yeah, I know the place," he replied, then stepped away.

J.J. replaced the detective, watching the inspector leave.  "Just as nice as I remembered him," the pilot said with a grin.

"J.J., meet us at the house, will you?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Addington.  Need me to do anything in the meantime?"

"Just make sure the plane's ready to go on a moment's notice."

"Already taken care of."

Addington nodded, heading back to his desk to make some calls.

Helene smiled reassuringly at J.J.  "We'll see you soon."

"Any luck finding Gabby or Pete?"

"Nothing," she replied.  "It looks like they might all be in trouble."

"Stone said that Gabby called him; maybe you can have that call traced back to its point of origin?" the pilot suggested.

At his desk Addington's head came up.  "Good idea, J.J.!" he called.  "We're already working on it!"

Helene nodded.  "I'll let you know if we find anything."

"Thanks."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The third man turned and smiled at Stone.

"Winston," the ex-SEAL snarled.

The man spread his hands in a sweeping gesture.  "The one and only."  He bowed slightly.

"What the hell are you up to?" Stone asked, then demanded.  "Where's Pete and Gabby?"

"Soon, Mr. Stone, you'll be seeing them very soon."  He motioned the other two men forward.

Stone stood, a predatory half-smile on his lips.  "He paying you good for this?"

"Well enough," the Indian replied, pulling a small gun from his pocket and shooting Stone.

The ex-SEAL jerked as a tiny dart sunk into his leg.  He reached down, yanking it out and tossing it aside, but even as he did he could feel his muscles begin to turn hard.  "That's not playing fair," Stone said as he swayed.

"Life's not fair, Mr. Stone," Winston replied.

The two men descended on Stone, their fists raining a series of hard blows on the helpless man.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Stone woke, a fire burning in his shoulders, and he groaned.  Glancing down, he discerned the reason; his feet dangled about a foot above a dirty cement floor, a rope circling his chest to hold him off the ground.  The large noose had cinched up under his arms from his weight, setting the fire in his joints.  His wrists were tied tightly behind his back, his hands already numb.  It wasn't as sophisticated as the rope tricks the VC had used on prisoners of war, but it was uncomfortable enough.

He glanced around the dimly lit room, trying to decide what it had been used for.  Still no obvious signs, and now no furniture, no nothing to tell him anything.

In the floor, a deep pit at least twenty feet across and ten feet deep filled the center of the large room.  Stone frowned, then snorted when he glanced at the ceiling and found a sturdy, if rusted, crane system overhead.  _An old boat warehouse_ , he concluded silently.

He squinted, trying to make out the bottom of the pit, sure he'd seen something moving down there.  He silently cursed the dim light and the headache that pounded more persistently at the base of his skull, making it difficult to think.

He struggled weakly, the movement drawing his attention to the wires attached to his bare chest, shoulders, and abdomen with small pads.  "What the hell…?"

A loud metallic cry echoed painfully through the room and Stone looked across the pit, finding a door on the far side.  Peter stumbled into the warehouse, the door screeching shut behind him.  The ex-detective spun, trying to stop the door from closing, but it was a battle already lost.

"Pete!"

Sinclair turned back, squinting in the murky darkness.  "Stone?"

"Watch out, Pete.  There's a pit in the floor.  Stay there, let your eyes adjust."

Sinclair waited several seconds, then shuffled forward slowly, his gaze sweeping the floor until his eyes completely adjusted and he could see the obstacle that separated him from Stone.

He stopped at the edge of the pit, peering across at his teammate.  "Stone?" he said, taking in the man's bruised and bloody face.  His gaze dropped, realizing for the first time Stone's real predicament.

"Think you can get over here and get me down?" Stone asked hopefully.

"I think so," Sinclair said, sitting down on the edge of the pit, his feet dangling in.

He looked down, preparing to drop, but scrambled back instead with a half-strangled cry.

"What?" Stone snapped.

"Rats!" Peter replied, nervously wiping his suddenly wet palms off on his pants.

"Rats?"

Before Stone could follow up a blast of current raced through the ex-SEAL, snapping his head back and causing his body to jerk uncontrollably.

"Stone!"

A low moan accompanied the macabre spectacle, reminding Sinclair of an epileptic puppet.

The current stopped and Stone slumped forward against the rope, blood trickling over his lips from where he'd bitten himself.

"Any time, Pete," the man wheezed.

Sinclair stood three feet back from the edge of the pit, staring at his friend, but unable to move.

"Pete?"

Not knowing what to do or say, Peter mumbled, "Gabrielle's dead."

"Gabby's dead?"

Peter nodded.  "Claire, too."

"Damn it!"  Stone hissed softly.  "Come on, Pete.  Help me here."

"Winston," Peter replied, realizing who must be behind what he'd seen.

"I'm gonna kill that fucker."

"Now, is that any way to talk about your host, Mr. Stone?"

"Winston," Stone hissed, watching the man walk out on his side of the pit.  "You—"

"Ah ah ah!" the man interrupted.  "Be nice.  After all, I do hold the switch."  He held up a small black box with a short antenna and an appropriately red button.

"What do you want, Winston?" Peter demanded.  His voice was flat, despondent.

Trevor paced to the edge of the pit and leaned over, watching the rats scurry back and forth, looking for a way out.  "Charming little creatures," he said, then looked up to meet Sinclair's frightened, angry gaze.  "Don't you agree?"

"What do you want?" Peter repeated.

Winston offered a half-shrug.  "Oh, call it… revenge?  Not completely accurate, but adequate for our purposes."

"You're insane," Peter hissed.

"Perhaps, but—"  He pressed the button.

Stone moaned, his body twitching and jerking in the spastic dance once more.

"Stop it!" Peter bellowed.  "Winston, stop it, now!"

Winston lifted his finger off the button.  "I'll stop, Peter.  Just as soon as you come over here and stop me."

Despite his best efforts Peter's gaze dropped to the dark, moving shadows at the bottom of the pit.  He swallowed hard, forcing himself to walk confidently to the edge, but as soon as he could see the outlines of the rats, he took a step back.

Winston laughed.  "Frightened, Peter?"

Sinclair looked, up, blue eyes narrowed.  "You bastard."

"Come on, Pete," Stone encouraged.  "Kick this mother's ass and let's get the hell out of Dodge, before I'm well-done."

Winston glanced from Sinclair to Stone, an amused grin on his face.  "Your colloquialisms are amusing, but your manners leave much to be desired, Mr. Stone."  He pressed the button.

Stone writhed.

"Winston!" Peter said, striding along the lip of the hollow like a caged lion.  He sat down and started to drop into the darkness, but his muscles froze, locking him on the edge.

"Go on," Winston urged.  "Do it, Peter.  Drop down into the darkness.  They're just rats, after all."

Stone groaned, his eyes rolling back.

Sinclair leaned forward slightly, trying to override the irrational fear that held his muscles in its vice.

"Do you want to watch him die?" Winston asked, lifting his finger.

Stone slumped again, his body still trembling and twitching.

"Stop this," Peter pleaded.  "For God's sake—"

"God?" Winston interrupted.  "God has nothing to do with this, Peter.  This is about revenge, my revenge my hapless friend.  Revenge.  A dish best served… hot!"  With a soft chuckle he pressed the trigger again.

Stone gurgled and convulsed.

"Damn you!" Sinclair cried, leaning another inch further over the edge of the pit, but he was still unable to force himself all the way in.

Winston stopped Stone's torture and the ex-SEAL grunted as he tried to catch his breath.  "You can… do it, Pete," he panted.

Sinclair met his teammates's pain-filled gaze, his expression clearly stating that he did not have the same confidence in his abilities.  He looked back to Winston.  "You have me.  Let Stone go."

The dapper man smiled and laughed.  "Let Mr. Stone go?  I think not, Peter. You forget, I know you too well.  I could kill you, oh so easily, and you'd walk willingly into your grave.  Where is the revenge there, I ask you?  But watching your friends die?  Now _there_ is a dish to be savored!"

"Friends?" Sinclair snapped.  "You've already killed Claire and Gabrielle."

Winston laughed.  "Peter, Peter, Peter, you are _so_ predictable.  Your ex-wife is alive and well in London.  I can't fault the poor woman for falling for you.  And as for your delicious French teammate…"

Winston raised a hand and snapped his fingers.  A door opened on the far side of the pit and the two men dragged a struggling Gabrielle out.

"She is perfectly unharmed… for the time being," Winston said.  "You don't really think I'd kill them without you watching, did you, Peter?"

Sinclair looked from Gabby to Stone, the fear in the ex-SEAL's eyes doing nothing to encourage him.

The two men released the photojournalist and she bolted to Stone.  "Are you all right?" she asked, reaching out to touch his battered face, but stopped short, not wanting to hurt him.

"Been better," he replied as lightly as he could.

She turned on Winston, fury and hate shining in her eyes.  "You won't get away with this."

Winston's tilted his head back and roared with laughter.  When he finally caught his breath, he brushed a tear off his cheek and smiled at Gabrielle.  "That was perfect, my dear.  Absolutely perfect!"  He chuckled softly, then sobered immediately.  "But of course I'll get away with this.  There's nothing and no one to stop me.  Mr. Stone is quite tied up, and Peter is too frightened to help either of you.  So you see, all I have to do is kill you and I _have_ gotten away with it."

He took a step closer to Gabrielle, reaching out to lightly stroke her cheek with the back of his hand.  She snapped her hand back and tried to slap him, but he caught her wrist, his gaze going hard.  "No, my dear.  I will not tolerate such behavior."  He pressed the button.

Stone's limp body jerked alive.

Gabrielle spun and lunged for Stone, trying to grab the wires that fed the electricity into his writhing body.  Accidentally touching the man's shoulders sent a jolt of the current flashing along her arms and down her legs.  She was jolted backwards, Winston catching her with arms wrapped around her mid-section.

His face, pressed close to her ear made it easy to hear.  "Isn't it grand.  Art of a most unique sort."

"It's torture," she spat.  "Nothing more!"

He lifted his finger and Stone went limp again, unconscious at last.

Winston laughed.  Turning the small control device over he, opened a panel on the back of the box and set a dial.  Then, he replaced the panel and tossed the device into the pit.  "I've set a timer on the control unit, Peter.  In exactly ten minutes it will send a lethal current through Mr. Stone's body and he will be dead."  He snapped his fingers and the two men grabbed Gabrielle and dragged her back to the rear wall, shackling her with wrist and ankle restraints attached to the wall.  With that done, they attached wires to her temples.

The tall Indian grinned at her, then jerked her blouse open just far enough so he could attach the wires to her chest.  That done, he leaned forward and tried to kiss her, but she snapped at his face, nipping his chin.  He yelped and jumped back.  She spit in his face.

Winston laughed as he slapped her.

"Three minutes after Stone is electrocuted, you'll be next," Winston told her.  "If you can talk Peter across the pit, he might be able to save you, but I wouldn't count on it."

With another manic laugh, Winston and the two men left.

"Peter!" Gabrielle called.  "Come on, you have to help us!"

Perched on the edge of the pit, Sinclair glanced up at her.  "I can't," he hissed through clinched teeth.  "I just… _can't_."

"Peter!" Gabrielle cried, panic welling up.

"I can't!" he bellowed in reply.

She took a deep breath and forced the fear back.  "Peter, listen to me.  I know you're afraid.  But you have to find that device."

"I can't let go," he groaned.

"Take a deep breath, close your eyes, and imagine something else," she suggested harshly.

Knowing he had to do something, Peter closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, trying to imagine that he was far away from Winston, the rats, and the danger, but the sound of the rats claws on the cement grew louder and louder, scratching through his concentration.  His eyes popped open.

"I can't!"

"You have to!" Gabrielle countered.  "You can't let Stone die!"

"Pete," Stone said weakly.

Sinclair's gaze shifted from Gabby to the ex-SEAL.

"Listen to me," Stone said as clearly as he could.  "Put a knuckle in your mouth and when you feel the panic start to take over, bite down."

"What?"

"Just do it," Stone said.  "I don't want to end up barbecue here."

Forcing the knuckle of his index finger into his mouth, Peter leaned over the pit.  A rush of panic raced along his nerves, and he bit down, the sudden pain in his finger pushing the fear back.  Eyes closed, he dropped into the pit.  The rats skittered to escape and he bit down harder, forcing himself to walk along the bottom of the pit until he spotted the control box.  Bending over, he bit harder, tasting blood as he fingers closed on the device.

The sudden rush of water pouring into the pit startled him and Peter straighten with the device clutched in one hand, his finger still in his mouth.

"Peter!" Gabrielle cried.  "What's that!?"

"Pete!?" Stone echoed.

Sinclair swung left and right, his mind racing, desperate to find a way out.  Around his ankles water lapped as the pit began to fill.  The rats, once anxious to move away from the human intruder, now swarmed back toward Sinclair, looking for their own escape route.

"Peter?" Gabrielle called again.  "Hurry, Peter!"

As the first rats tried to climb up his pant leg Peter screamed and scrambled blindly for the far side of the pit.  Slapping his hands against the far wall his fingers curled and uncurled frantically seeking a hold of any sort, but the smooth surface was impossible to climb.  He tried to jump, but the lip of the pit was just out of reach.

Tiny claws pricked through his pant legs, scratching his skin, tugging him closer to the edge of sanity.  With a constant stream of strangled profanity he kicked and knocked the rats off his clothes as the water continued to rise.  Something dumped into his back, and Sinclair spun.  A bone still sheathed in blood-red flesh bobbed in the water and he looked closer, finding other body parts floating in the water with the swimming rats.

The spectacle of three rats fighting on top of another severed leg held his attention until the control device bobbed into sight not far away.

He grabbed the box and shoved it down the front of his shirt, then he grabbed a rat off his shoulder, slamming it against the cement wall of the pit with a scream, killing it.

"Pete!" Stone called.

"Peter!?" Gabrielle echoed.

Kicking as hard as he could Sinclair used the buoyancy of the water to give him the additional lift he needed to reach the top of the pit, his hands sliding over the lip.  He pulled himself up, trying to ignore the rats using his back as a bridge to safety as he dragged himself out.

Once free, he scrambled to his feet, frantically pulling and kicking the rodents off his clothes.

"Peter!  Hurry!" Gabrielle cried.

The rats gone, Sinclair groped inside his shirt, finding the control device and fumbling to get the back open, his bloody, chewed finger making it more difficult.

"Hurry, Pete," Stone said, his internal clock telling him that time was quickly running out.

Sinclair opened the back of the device and pulled the wires out, then dropped the device and stomped on it several times with a guttural snarl, breaking the box into tiny shards of plastic and computer chips.  He looked up as Stone screamed, his body jerking uncontrollably.

Lunging forward, Peter grabbed at the wires, cursing as he was zapped as well, but he pulled them free, ending Stone's torment.  That done, he stumbled to Gabrielle and tore the wires off her chest and temples.  He freed the restraints and together the pair moved back to Stone.

"There!" Gabrielle said, running to the back wall where the rope suspending him was secured.  She untied the hitch and Peter caught the unconscious man, lying him on the floor.

Hands shaking so hard he couldn't handle the knots, Peter was forced to watch Gabrielle untie them, freeing Stone.

"Stone?" she called, rolling him onto his back.  "Stone, can you hear me?"

His eyes fluttered open.  "Pete?"

"Let's get the hell _out_ of here," Sinclair replied.

Together they helped Stone to his feet, and supporting him between them, moved to the door Winston had used.  It was unlocked.

"Easy, easy," Stone mumbled as they moved into the hallway.  "This is too easy.  Slow down."

"You think he's waiting for us?" Gabrielle asked.

"You can count on it," Stone wheezed, pulling up and stopping them.  "I think I can make it on my own," he said.  "But we go slow, watch for traps."

Gabrielle nodded, but Peter simply stared at Stone, his gaze slightly glassy.

Stone reached out, resting a hand on Peter's shoulder.  "One step at a time, Pete."

Sinclair nodded.

The attack came halfway down the hallway.  Two doors opened, and Winston's two companions stepped out, one in front and one behind the threesome. Stone turned to face the shorter Anglo as he charged them with the grace of a drunken steer.  Still, he managed to wrap his arms around Stone's mid-section, slamming him back against the wall as Sinclair and Gabrielle tangled with the Indian.

Stone used the edges of his palms to land a double knife hand attack at the base of his attacker's neck.  The man grunted and pounded at Stone's gut.

While he was focused, Stone lifted the man's revolver free of its belt holster then shoved his knee up, catching the man solidly in the chest.  The ex-SEAL followed up with another knee to the man's groin and a solid punch to the man's jaw.  He dropped and Stone wasted no time delivering a killing stomp to the man's neck as he slipped the gun into the waistband of his jeans.  He turned to help the others, but watched as Gabrielle kicked the man in the mid-section, Sinclair following up with an elbow to the Indian's temple, dropping the man.

"Come on," Stone gasped, staggering forward two steps before he saw Winston.  His muscles seized up and his knees buckled, pitching him forward into the wall.  He slid down as Peter and Gabrielle moved to help him up.

" _Don't_ move," Winston said coldly.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Winston had watched Sinclair escape the pit, slamming a hand against the wall.  "Damn him!"

He spun on the two men who stood across the room, too afraid to come any closer.  "They'll try to escape.  I want them stopped.  Peter _will_ watch his teammates die!"

The two men escaped out of the room and Winston gathered up the few articles he wanted from the room, shoving them into a small gym bag before he followed after the men, his gun drawn and ready.

Then they had defeated his men, leaving them sprawled on the floor, one dead, the other useless.  It was more than Winston could take.  He dropped his bag and stepped out into the hallway, his Browning leveled on the already down Stone.

" _Don't_ move," he said coldly.

"No!" Gabrielle said, starting to move forward to protect Stone, but Sinclair grabbed her arm, stopping her short.

"You told him what to do," Winston said quietly to Stone.  "You'll die for that, I promise you."

The gun shifted from Stone to Gabrielle, and Winston saw Peter's gaze flicker to the gun still tucked into the waistband of Almaraz's slacks.

"Oh, Peter," Winston chuckled.  "And what would you do with that gun?  Shoot me?"  He smiled and took a step closer to Gabrielle, lifting the gun so it was level with her face.  "Somehow I doubt it.  But I could kill her, right here, right now; before you could reach that gun."

"Let her go, Winston," Peter said, his voice flat.

"Let her go?  After all the trouble I went through to get you all here?  Oh no, Peter.  I _won't_ let her go.  I want to see the expression on your face when I pull the trigger."

He took another half-step closer to Gabrielle.

"No!" Gabrielle said, moving between Winston and Sinclair.  "Leave him alone."

Winston shifted the weapon to Stone, pressing it against the side of the man's head.  "Would you prefer that I killed Mr. Stone instead?"

Gabrielle's hands came up.  "I don't want you to kill either of us," she said, watching Peter from the corner of her eye.  He looked a moment away from passing out.

Winston took another step, then reached out, lightly slapping Peter's cheek.  "If you had to pick, which one would you give me?" Winston asked.

Sinclair shook his head.

"Would you give me Mr. Stone?"  The gun shifted back to Gabrielle's face.  "Or her?  Which one, Peter?"

"Stop it!" Sinclair snapped.  "If you honestly think I'm going to pick for you, you're more mad than I think you are!"  He glanced again at the Indian's gun.

"Go on, Peter, take it," Winston said, gesturing to the gun with his own.  "Really, I do insist."

Sinclair hesitated a moment, then slowly leaned over, expecting Winston to fire a warning shot when his hand drew too close to the weapon, but his fingers closed on the butt and he straightened, the gun ready and leveled on Winston.

"There, you see?" Winston gloated.  "You can't kill me, Peter.  You're too honorable.  Too much the Scotland Yard man."

"Shoot the son of a bitch, Pete," Stone growled from where he huddled against the wall, his muscles shivering.

Winston shifted his weapon back to Gabrielle.  "Drop the gun, Peter.  Drop it now or I will take her with me."

"Don't do it, Pete," Stone panted, his face ashen under a fine film of sweat.

"Oh, you'd better, Peter, or I _will_ kill her.  You know I will.  I won't go out alone."

Sinclair lowered the gun, but didn't drop it.

"Let it go, Peter," Winston commanded softly.  "Or I'll take you back to the _pit_."

Peter let the gun fall out of his fingers.

"You bastard," Gabrielle hissed.

Winston laughed.  "Yes, yes I am."

The first distant wail of sirens echoed through the building.  Winston's eyes rounded and he glanced nervously behind him at the closed door at the end of the hall.  "Damn," he breathed softly.

"That's the police," Gabrielle snapped.

Winston's gaze flicked from Peter to Gabrielle to Stone and back to Sinclair.  Out of time.  "Well, it appears I've run out of time," he said with a charming smile.  "I kill you all now and get caught, or…"  He rotated the gun in his hand and handed it to Sinclair, butt first.

Peter's fingers closed on the weapon, and he lifted it to point at Winston's face.

"Pull the trigger, Pete," Stone hissed.

"Oh no, I don't think so," Winston said.

"Kill him," Gabrielle urged.

Winston's gaze never left Sinclair.  "I'm no longer a threat to you or your associates, am I, Peter.  You'll arrest me, won't you?  Of course you will, and then I'll escape again.  The game is at check."

Stone watched Sinclair's hand, waiting for his trigger finger to twitch.  Instead, Peter lowered the gun.  "I won't kill you, Trevor," he said softly.

"As I said," Winston said with a winning smile.  "Check."

"Checkmate, asshole," Stone growled, bringing the gun up he'd taken off broken-nose with both hands and firing.

Winston looked when Stone spoke, his eyes widening as the gun came up and the ex-SEAL fired.

"Yes!" Gabrielle squealed as Winston crumpled to the floor.  She glanced quickly at Peter, but rushed to Stone, catching him as he pitched forward, a slight smile on his lips.  The gun clattered to the floor.  "Stone?"

Sinclair looked from Winston to Stone and Gabrielle.

"Help me," she said, Stone's cold, clammy skin and grey completion frightening her.  "He needs a doctor.  Right now."

Peter stood his ground, a whirlpool of emotions threatening to pull him into the same welcome blackness that had taken Stone.

"Peter!" Gabby called again.  The door burst open and she jumped, grabbing for the gun until she realized that several Toronto metro police were entering the hallway, their weapons at the ready.

Sinclair felt his hands start to tremble as the officers reached them, one checking Winston while two others worked over Stone, Gabrielle demanding that they get Stone to a hospital.  He felt someone take his arm and followed meekly as he was led out of the building and into the bright morning sunlight.  Blinking, he realized that it was J.J. who had led him out.

Addington and Helene walked up to joined them.

"Peter?" Alexander repeated.  "What the hell happened?"

Sinclair watched two medics maneuver a gurney through the door, then turned to face Addington.  "Trevor Winston," was all he managed before swaying.  Consciousness dropped out from under him and he felt J.J. and Addington grab him as the blackness closed in.

"Help us!" Addington called and another medic rushed to take Peter.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Stone listened to the steady beat of a heart monitor and followed the sound back to consciousness.  He blinked, groaning as wakefulness brought with it all the aches and pains left over from his encounter with Winston.  He lifted his head off the pillow, glancing around the room.  A large vase of flowers sat on the bedside table – Helene's touch, he guessed.

Sun filtered past half-closed curtains, a slice of blue sky visible beyond.  He turned his attention to the bedside equipment.  Heart monitor, standard for an electrocution victim; a nose tube provided oxygen; two IVs dripped fluids and whatever medication he needed into his veins.  No casts, no blood, no restraints, and no immobilization apparatus.  He smiled.  Not too bad, all things considered.

The door whisked open and he looked to see if he had a pretty nurse, too.

"Feeling better?"  Gabrielle asked softly.

"Yeah, feelin' fine and dandy," Stone admitted.  "Must have me on a morphine drip."

She walked to the bedside and stood, smiling down at him.  "You look disappointed to see me."

"I was hoping you'd be a pretty little red-headed nurse."

Gabby grinned, her eyes dancing with amusement.  "Don't get your hopes up."

"How's Pete?"

Her expression turned serious and Stone scooted up in the bed, then used the buttons hanging from the rails to raise the head of his bed.

"He's doing better," she said.  "He's across the hall."

"Winston?"

"Dead," she said, a small feral smile taking over her lips.  "Even half-unconscious you're a pretty good shot."

"Even unconscious I'm a pretty good shot," Stone teased.

Silence filled the room.

Stone finally cleared his throat and said, "I had to do it."

"I know," Gabrielle replied, walking over to pour him a glass of water from the mustard-colored plastic pitcher.  "He would have tried again."

Stone nodded, accepting the glass and taking a long drink.  "But Pete didn't agree."

"No," she admitted.  "But I want you to know, I'm glad you did it.  The bastard deserved to die."

Stone fought back a grin.  "I appreciate the support.  I just hope Pete agrees and doesn't get me canned."

"Canned, Mr. Stone?" Addington asked as he walked into the room.

Stone looked sheepishly at the industrialist.  "It's just—"

"Ms. Germont told us what happened," Alexander said somberly.  "And given the situation…"  He paused, staring at his shoes for a moment before he added.  "I'd like to think I might have done the same thing."

Stone nodded.  "I appreciate that, Mr. A, but when it comes right down to it, if Pete can't accept it, I won't be worth much to this team."

Addington started back toward the door.  "He'll come around."

"I hope you're right," Gabrielle replied, reaching out to rest a supportive hand on Stone's shoulder.

"Me, too," the industrialist said, pausing at the door.  "Because I wouldn't want to lose Mr. Stone."  He opened the door and left.

Gabrielle glanced down at Stone, enjoying the surprised expression on his bruised face.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Three days later Stone paced in the hospital's atrium.  Peter had been released after twenty-four hours and had immediately left Toronto, heading for London to check on Claire, who, Gabrielle told him, was fine, if a little worried.  Addington and Helene had headed back to Paris for a meeting the day before, leaving Gabrielle to keep Stone company for another two days.

 _Two days_ , Stone thought as he paced back and forth along the narrow pathway edged with flowers and tall fichus trees.  Above him sunlight filtered through the skylights.  He paused, dropping into a couple of deep knee bends, testing his still sore muscles.

He was fine.  Sore, sure, but who wouldn't be?  The bruises were rapidly fading, and daily physical therapy was helping his shoulders recover.  That he'd continue when he got back to Paris, or maybe Philadelphia.  He nodded to himself.  He would use a couple of weeks doing nothing more than watching TV, reading the paper, and listening to some good ol' Philly soul.

He checked his watch.  _Where the hell's Gabrielle?_ he wondered.  _She was supposed to be back by now with the haul._

He licked his lips, imagining the Philly cheese steak, fries, and chocolate shake.  Food.  Real food.  Not that crap the hospital called food.  Where _was_ she?

He sighed and paced back down the path.

"Hey, Sport, I heard you were waiting for this."

Stone spun, finding Peter standing at the end of the path, holding out a white paper sack.

The ex-SEAL closed the space, grabbing the bag and carrying it back to one of the benches.  Sitting down, he tore into the paper, splitting it open, exposing the sandwich and fries.  He shoved a french fry into his mouth, eyes closing as he chewed.

"Ahhh," he said, then looked to Sinclair.  "Hey, where's my shake?" he asked.

Sinclair's lips twitched slightly and he walked over and handed the man the cold drink.

"Thanks," Stone said, taking a bite of the sandwich, then a sip of the shake.  He gestured to the other end of the bench.  "Have a seat," he said around the bite.

Sinclair sat, waiting in silence while Stone devoured the food in record time.  "Don't they feed you here?" he asked.

Stone snorted behind his last bite of fries.  "You weren't here long enough to experience what they're calling food.  Makes C-rats look gourmet."

"That bad?"

" _Worse_."

Sinclair nodded, a slight smile on his face.

"What's up, Pete?" Stone asked when silence settled between them a second time.

Leaning back, Peter stared up at the skylight and sighed heavily.  Looking back at Stone, he replied, "I can't say that I agree with what you did, killing Winston, but…"

"But?"

"But there's a part of me that's glad you did."

Stone weighed the words and the sentiment behind them.  It wasn't what he'd expected.  "It was for the right side."

"And the right reasons?"

"I think so," Stone said.

"Explain that to me."

"Pete, you know as well as I do if Winston had gone back to prison he would've escaped again.  Sooner or later we'd be facing something like that again, and we might not've been quite so lucky the next time.  You don't let your enemy walk away so he can take another shot at you later, at his convenience."

Sinclair sat, mulling over the words, the argument, and the sentiment behind it.  "I'm just not like that," he finally said.  "I can't just execute an unarmed man."

"I know," Stone replied.  "That's why you're the head of this team."

Peter met the ex-SEAL's gaze.  "I'm not sure that's such a good idea any more either."

"What are you talkin' about?"

Sinclair stood and paced off several steps.  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trench coat and hunched his shoulders.  "I blew it in that warehouse, Stone.  You know it and I know it.  How can I lead this team when I can't—"

"Whoa, Pete," Stone interrupted.  "Listen and listen hard, we've all got things that we're scared of."

"But if that fear stops me from doing my job—"

"So you don't like dead bodies, who does?  Did it ever stop you from doing your job?"

"No," Sinclair admitted.

"And you don't like rats—"

"I loath the vile creatures."

"Did that ever stop you from doing what you had to?"

"It did this time."

Stone leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.  "No, it didn't, Pete.  It slowed you down, but it didn't stop you."

"I could've gotten you killed," Peter argued.  "That is not acceptable."

"Glad we agree," Stone replied lightly.

"You know what I mean."

"Look, Pete, we're all human.  We've got our faults and our fears.  Our weaknesses.  That's why this is a team; we compensate for each other.  There's no shame in that.  Hell, if we were all supermen—"

"And women," Sinclair inserted.

"And superwomen," Stone acknowledged with a grin.  "We wouldn't need units, we'd just go out there and kick ass and take names."

"I talked to a friend of mine in London.  He's got a psychiatric practice.  He think he might be able to help this phobia I have with rats."

Stone nodded.  "Nothin' wrong with spending some time on the couch."

Sinclair grinned slightly.  "Oh, like you have?"

Stone nodded somberly.  "Couple of times, mostly group stuff."

"The war?"

Another nod.

Sinclair walked back to the bench and sat down next to Stone.  "I've got a question for you, Sport."

"Shoot."

"That trick you suggested," Peter said, extending his hand, a white bandage still wrapped around his finger.  "Did you learn that in the war?"

Stone sat up straighter, his hands seeking out the pockets of his hospital robe as a light chill passed over his shoulders.  "There was this guy in our unit, a newbie.  He thought he was Superman, real gung-ho, but there was one catch.  Leeches freaked this guy out.  We'd go out on a mission, have to ford a river or move across the paddies and you could feel the little blood-suckers get into your clothes, bite and start to feed…  And if we got pinned down it could be a while before you get the damned things off.  The first time he damn-near lost it.  Could've gotten the whole unit killed."

"Why didn't they just move him to another unit?"

Stone grinned and shook his head.  "Didn't work that way, Pete."

"So he started chewing on his knuckles?"

Stone nodded.  "Until he got it under control."

"I don't think I'll ever be able to control the fear like that when it comes to rats.  Not when it's lots of the little beasts, I can hardly even talk about it."

Stone shrugged.  "You never know.  Long-term exposure can make a difference, but I wouldn't recommend it as a therapy."

Sinclair chuckled and shook his head.  "Neither would I."  He met Stone's appraising gaze.  "I appreciate it, though."

"That's what being a team is all about, Pete.  I help you, you help me."

"I'm just feeling like I didn't help enough."

"Pete, when it came down to the wire, you forgot about your fear and you did what you had to, just like I did."

"You?"

Stone drew his hands out of his pockets and held them up.  Sinclair studied the tanned, calloused hands, noticing the faint scars around the first two knuckles on both hands for the first time.  He met Stone's gaze, surprised.

"I still hate the damned things," Stone grumbled.

Peter snorted softly, then chuckled, the soft amusement escalating to a full belly laugh.  Stone joined him.

"We are a pair, aren't we?" Peter finally managed.

"That we are."

A few moments later the laughter faded away and Peter stood.  "I should let you get some rest."

"Rest, hell, I wanna get the hell out of here."

Sinclair reached out, resting a hand lightly on the ex-SEAL's shoulder.  "All in good time, Stone."

The dark-haired man looked up at Peter, a hopeful, boyish expression on his face.  "Maybe you could talk to the boss?"

Sinclair shook his head.  "Alexander is receiving daily progress reports from your doctor.  When he says you can go, _then_ you can go."

Stone rolled his head and groaned.  "I'll starve to death if I don't get outta here soon!" he grouched.

"I'm sure you'll find a way to get through it.  Whatever happened to all of that Navy SEAL training?"

"Some help you are, pal," Stone grumbled as he folded his arms over his chest and nearly pouted.

Sinclair extended his hand and Stone grudgingly took it, allowing Peter to pull him to his feet.  "Maybe you can convince Gabrielle to smuggle in something from time to time."

Stone snorted and shook his head.  "You know what this lunch is gonna cost me?"

Peter's eyes twinkled.  "Do I want to know?"

"Skydiving lessons."

"Skydiving?"

"The woman's an adrenaline junkie, Pete."

"Tell me about it."

"Maybe you could smuggle in something?"

"It'll cost you," Peter said, stepping out into the hospital hallway.

"You, too?" Stone complained, following.  "I thought we were a team here."

"This time I'm afraid your on your own, Sport."

"Great," Stone grumbled, following Peter down the hall towards his room.  "How's a guy supposed to get his strength back if he can't get any decent food?"

 

 

_Fear unhinges the will, and by unhinging the will it paralyzes the reason…_

_Whilst moral fear is largely overcome by courage based on reason,_

_physical fear is overcome by courage based on physical means._

_— Major General J.F.C. Fuller._


End file.
